


Shed Your Skin

by MrsMollyH



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alley Sex, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Financier!Jensen, M/M, Public Sex, Rimming, Rough Sex, Spit As Lube, Strippers & Strip Clubs, stripper!jared
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:24:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1620725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsMollyH/pseuds/MrsMollyH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen Ackles is a finance manager who has been sent to Austin to audit the branch's practices. With some goading, the employees there convince him to hit up Supernatural, the hottest male strip club in South Texas. Of course, the headliner is a huge, bronze god named Jared Padalecki, who dances under the name Sam Wesson; 76 inches of long, lean muscle and thick, shoulder-length hair.</p><p>What could possibly happen?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shed Your Skin

There’s a club, and every woman and man in Austin knows its name. It is notorious, infamous, and beloved for having the most attractive men in the city. The club’s name, a none too subtle play on the level of attractiveness of its dancers, is Supernatural. The headliner is a huge, bronze god named Jared Padalecki who dances under the name Sam Wesson: 76 inches of long, lean muscle and thick, shoulder-length hair. He hailed from just an hour and a half south, where they bred them big and strong, corn-fed Texas boys. But he had a little something more. His eyes were like spring and his body, well, ask any of the women and men who love him. He might as well be Adonis.

He has two special acts: the first of which is the tall, lean, dirty cowboy act. There is enough makeup on him to look like he had been out on the prairie all day: skin darkened just enough to look dirty, as he already sports a healthy tan, and his eyes dusted in kohl like he needs it to see in the sun, and his cheekbones standing out like blades against the rest of his face. His costume is a white wife beater, a royal purple thong that is absolutely bedecked in rhinestones, and leather assless chaps, paired with a set of cowboy boots. And he doesn’t dance to some bullshit cliche like “Save a Horse,” no, Jared Padalecki dances to “Leathers” by Deftones: hard, unforgiving, and possessive. It starts with the tip of his hat, and a roll of his hips, and then the smallest bite of a lip, baring straight teeth, white like the handle of a handed-down pistol. 

The crowd always loses it most when Jared turns around, grabs the pole and rolls his whole body, showing off the hard curve of his ass.

This is least lost on the guy who walks in right as he does it. 6’1” of north Texan man named Jensen Ackles, down in Austin because the finance company he works for wants him to make sure the same procedures they used in the DFW metroplex are being correctly applied in the college town. Day one was over and thank _fuck_. Everyone in the company has been raving about the club down on 6th street called Supernatural. So he had agreed, joining them for the evening, claiming he’d have just one drink and then he’d head back to the Hilton he had been put up in. He had walked to the bar, ordered a Stella Artois, and turned around to see the tallest, most built man in a purple g-string that he had ever seen. 

At his shoulder, Jensen hears a snort. The manager of the Austin branch, Richard Speight, Jr., as his silver name plate on his desk so proudly reads, holds a thin drink straw between two fingers and bites the tip of it as he looks at Jensen’s open mouth. 

“Told you it was worth stopping in,” he chides playfully.

The singer is screaming to _shed your skin_ and Jensen is entranced as the dancer on the stage rolls his body and removes the white tank top that clings to his huge form. He throws it into the crowd and is rewarded with a chorus of high female screams and a few throaty male hoots. Jensen nearly swallows his tongue.

“You know,” Richard murmurs at Jensen’s shoulder, “he has more than one act. There’s this one and a priest act later in the night. He goes by Sam Wesson. That’s not his real name—” Richard continues speaking, but Jensen tunes him out unwittingly. Jensen has always considered himself progressive and metropolitan, but he had never seen a man like this in the metroplex. Yeah, they built them nice up there, those men with broad shoulders you meet and know in the beltway, but damn if they weren’t as _big_. Jensen rolls the stage name around in his head, _Sam Wesson_ , savoring it like good whiskey in his head.

The dancer tips his hat as he spreads his thighs, landing on his knees and grinding into the stage, a rain of dollar bills falling. Jensen hears a loud female whoop from near the bar, and recognizes the very petite local branch assistant manager, Genevieve, as its origin. He smirks over her enthusiasm and volume. He can’t blame her, as his brain pushes him to do the same. And he looks back and dear God, if that man isn’t fucking the stage. Jensen takes a long pull off the neck of his beer, but is sidelined when a shot is shoved in his hand. Richard and Gen look at him expectantly, clutching their own shots.

“To new friends,” Jensen toasts, and it’s almost a question when he says it. But both of them toast him, slamming their shots on the bar and gulping them back with unabashed fire. The song that “Sam Wesson” was dancing to ended, and Jensen regrets having missed the end of it, but Richard’s words ring in his head. There is at least one more act for “Sam” to complete. 

Richard and Gen lead Jensen to near the stage, seating him up close so that he can observe the acts that come up while “Sam” is taking his break.

After the cowboy act comes someone who goes by Castiel, dancing with a set of angel wings and a rhinestone encrusted white thong. He is the bearer of big blue eyes and a narrow waist, the dance happening to, and Jensen can’t breathe cause he wants to laugh: “Fallen Angel” by Poison. It’s campy and it’s playful and it also gets thrusting and hard, and hell, isn’t this what Jensen is here for? Cock rock and cock. Richard leans over and says, “now _he_ is why I come here.” Jensen nearly chokes cause he didn’t expect it and he hadn’t realized that was Richard’s thing. “His real name is Misha,” Richard mutters.

Jensen leans back and appraises Richard. Jensen maintains a sense of pride over the fact that Richard would admit that to him after such a short time. He claps him on the back. “I’m assuming you know when Misha gets off shift?” Jensen winks at Richard, and he sees him flush just a bit.

“We’ve been together six months,” Richard admits, and Jensen smiles.

“Well done, Richard,” and he means it, eyes returning to the dancer and his black wings and white thong, the shock of thick black hair and ice blue eyes. Although he appreciates Misha’s form, his mind returns time and again to the dancer he had seen before. He turns to Richard, “if you know Misha, then you’d know, uh, ‘Sam’s’ name, right?”

Richard laughs. “It’s Jared. His name is Jared.” And Jensen pauses, taking in the dancer’s real identity, enjoying it. Jared: it rings though his head like sin with a new name. Gen has a positively wicked grin on her face, and Jensen both loves and fears the look on her features.

Misha is touching himself, running his hands over his body, and flirting with the audience. He plays up the strength of his back and flaunts the angel wings he wears, and the money rains down. Misha finishes up and gathers his dollar bills—with a few more generous bills, a handful of which come from Richard—and leaves the stage. The stage lights dim, and a gravelly voice comes from the dark: “Well, well, ladies and gentlemen, what a night it’s been so far, huh?” And the audience roars in response. There’s a flash, and a tall, broad shouldered guy with a dusting of chest hair walks out in low-slung jeans and nothing else. The women in the audience lose it, and Jensen can see out of the corner of his eye that Gen is practically vibrating with excitement. 

“I’m Jeff, and this is my lovely establishment.” And Jensen can tell Jeff revels in this, this power and spotlight. Jeff is bulky and has several days’ stubble along the hard clench of his jaw, marking his age in some grey in his beard, and the hearty lines time had placed on his handsome face and at the corners of his dark eyes.

“It’s been a while since I’ve done this, but, well, it’s a good night to get back into old habits, am I right?” And the lights dim again, and sure enough, Jeff dances to “Pony” by Ginuwine. He’s every bit the classic male stripper: broad, powerful chest and shoulders, thrusting hips, a laugh on his face and genuine joy in doing what he loves. The dance is rugged and personal. Gen is shrieking as he does it, and Jensen loves seeing her be herself. It suits her grandly. Jeff comes to the edge of the stage and plays for the audience, and Jensen would be damned if he didn’t play right to Gen, and Gen loves every second of it.

Jensen leans back in his chair and watches, enjoying the atmosphere: the blue gloss of the lights on the faces of the patrons, the lived in feeling of the bar, the loud music vibrating like recoil in his bones. The cold circle of the beer bottle he holds on his thigh is grounding. The club lives up to the hype and more. “Pony” runs its final few lines, and there’s raucous applause and shouting. 

Jeff is on his feet again, and he’s addressing the audience: “All right, you guys, we all know why you’re really here. For his second act, put your hands together for… Sam Wesson!” 

And the club explodes. There’s screams, and Jensen can’t help it cause he shouts, too. The lights go hard and red, and there’s a growl of music and, oh dear Christ, Richard wasn’t kidding. It’s Marilyn Manson’s cover of “Personal Jesus” and “Sam”— _Jared_ , Jensen mentally corrects himself—is on stage in a fucking _cassock_ and collar. Jensen swallows and he’s already half hard in his slacks because of the music and the costume alone. He adjusts himself and the brush of his hand is enough to set his nerves on fire. Jensen manages to hide the thickness of his cock, but he wonders how long his luck will hold out.

Jared is rolling his hips, and he pulls at the sleeves of the cassock and they come off, one at a time, exposing arms that look like absolute sin and pure solid muscle. His hair brushes at the shoulders of his costume, and it’s so long that it obscures the priest’s collar at times, and Jensen considers wrapping his hands in that hair and licking a stripe up that neck where the collar hugs Jared’s throat. Jared rips off the top portion of the cassock as he dances, but the costume cleverly leaves the collar in place. His hands write some sort of poetry over the hard lines of his body, and the crowd is going insane, and so is Jensen. Jared is rolling his hips and touching his chest, teasing his nipples to the delight of the crowd, hinting at his hands going under his waistband.

In moments, Jared is down to a black thong with rhinestones on it and a pair of motorcycle boots that had been hidden under his pull-away black pants. Jensen has put a knuckle between his teeth in hopes of calming the fire in his body, and Jared looks him dead in the eye. Jensen is nailed to his chair by it, and he bites down hard on the finger when Jared does it. Jared’s eyes, he can tell now, are hazel and bright, almost green but more blue and the beer Jensen had been drinking goes right to his head and the look in Jared’s eyes, the sinful smirk on his lips and the hollow of his dimples, that goes right to Jensen’s dick.

Jared turns from the crowd and plays his hands along the back of his thong, pulling it down and tugging on it, rolling his hips and showing off his ass. He turns his head and looks over his shoulder and practically drinks in the screams and the love from the audience. His hair is in his face as he fucks the stage. Jensen can feel sweat at the base of his skull, and he’s having trouble sitting still. 

Jared moves to the pole and inverts his body, then spins down it. He rides it like there’s no tomorrow, and Jensen has to clear his throat to keep from moaning. Jared turns his back to the pole and slides down it, opening his thighs, then standing back up and striking a pose.

The song ends and Jared kisses his hand and gestures to the audience, igniting screams and hoots. Jensen adjusts himself, then stands to go to the bar to get another beer. He runs a hand through his hair, and breathes out hard. He’s never been so instantaneously attracted to someone, and he’s thrilled and terrified by the prospect. He reaches the bar and signals to the bartender for another, and turns to lean his elbow on the bar and survey the club. The lights are dim and sweat and dopamine covered faces shine like hard-polished stones in the crowd of bodies.

There’s a hard _thunk_ at his elbow, and the bartender has left him his beer. As he goes to turn around to leave the bar, there’s another _thunk_. Jensen turns to the sound, and sees a Shiner Bock on the bar. The beer is dwarfed by the hand around it. Jensen’s eyes cover miles of tan skin, thick forearms to rolled up black shirtsleeves. Between the plackets of the shirt is an expanse of hard, flat stomach. Jared Padalecki is right next to him, and Jensen can barely breathe. Jensen thinks for a moment, trying to come up with something to say.

“I, uh, I liked your…performance,” Jensen offers, and he considers being embarrassed by his lack of wit until he notices that Jared actually smiles in response.

“Thanks,” Jared responds, a smile playing off his pink lips. “I noticed you in the audience. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” Jensen is mid-swallow when Jared offers up the second portion of his statement, and he has to keep from choking when Jared says it. Jensen shakes his head minutely at the comment and smirks. Jensen offers his hand to Jared, “My name’s Jensen.” As Jared takes his hand, Jensen can see Jared calculating, deciding how much to share. He offers a little sigh.

“I’m assuming you know my real name isn't Sam Wesson?” Jensen smiles and tips his head to the side with a quirk of his lips, a _no shit_ motion. Jared has the nerve to blush when Jensen does it. “My real name is Jared Padalecki.” 

“It’s good to meet you, Jared Padalecki,” and Jensen is pushing him, just enough to see how far he bends, because he places his hand on Jared’s shoulder in an almost over-friendly manner. Jared leans into the touch just a bit, and Jensen can feel the heat of Jared’s dance-warmed body through the black shirt he’s wearing. The dancer levels his eyes to Jensen’s and licks his lips.

“You know, Jensen, I noticed your, well, _reaction_ to my performance.” Jared drawls, with a hot burn of confidence in his eyes. “Would you care to try getting that reaction again?” And Jared has the audacity to smirk as he says it, and Jensen is pretty sure his knees are about to turn to water. Jared saw the bluff of his touch and is pushing right back, hard and determined.

“I, uh, no, I wouldn’t mind.” Jensen offers, less smoothly than he’d like, but fuck, this guy has him more riled up than he’s been in months. Jared beckons Jensen with his head, a firm _follow me_ motion, and he’s making his way to the back. Jensen follows right behind, not waiting for his mind to tell him that hey, maybe this wasn't the best idea because fuck that, it certainly felt like the best fucking idea he had ever heard. Jared opens a heavy black door and leads Jensen outside to the alley behind the bar. There is a truly wicked grin on the tall man’s face, and that grin has Jensen’s cock filling quickly in his pants, hardening against his thigh and trapped in his slacks.

As soon as Jensen is out the door, Jared slams him against the wall, crushing his mouth in a kiss and breathing hard. Jensen feels like he’s drowning in the taller man, but kisses back in kind: hard, probing tongue, his fingers clutching at the wanton set of Jared’s jaw. There would be fingernail marks on that jaw later, and Jensen takes great pride in putting them there. Jared’s large hand is burning into Jensen’s chest, pressing and holding him against the wall, forcing Jensen’s back into the rough side of the building and lighting up his nerves. Jensen makes needy noises into Jared’s wet mouth, keening and wanting and Jared pulls away from the kiss with a grunt.

“You have quite the set of lips, Jensen,” and he’s breathing the words into Jensen’s neck as he nips along the thin flesh there, “I sure would like to see you put them to work.” The words are all it takes, and Jensen is on his knees, thanking God he chose to wear black slacks today because the knees are about to be filthy. Jensen scrabbles at the button fly of the jeans slung low around Jared’s hips, and is fucking thrilled at the fact that Jared is not wearing a stitch underneath. Pulling Jared’s cock free, Jensen licks at the head of it, teasing Jared and warming up before he licks a long, dangerous stripe from root to tip. He takes the head of Jared’s dick in his mouth and begins sucking hard, worshiping it. Jensen takes as much as he can in, licking hard and bobbing his head up and down, using his hand to cup Jared’s balls. Jared throws his head back with a needy moan and fists his hand in Jensen’s hair. 

“Fuck, feels so good,” Jared’s nearly unintelligible when he says it, and he starts fucking in and out of Jensen’s mouth, using it, making Jensen drool and spit. “Get me nice and wet.” Jensen keens at the statement, renews his efforts, licking and sucking a wet mess onto Jared’s cock. Jared takes in a sharp breath and pulls on Jensen’s hair, taking Jensen’s mouth off his dick with a lurid _pop._

“Get up,” Jared’s voice is so fucked out that Jensen immediately does as he’s told. Jared unbuckles Jensen’s belt and rucks down his pants, then spins Jensen so his cheek is flush with the wall of the club. Jensen hears Jared get on his knees and _fuck_ if Jared isn’t kneading his ass, working him. Jared’s breath is at his hole, and he plunges his tongue inside Jensen, opening him up. Hot as an iron brand, Jared’s tongue splits him open and delves inside and Jensen is halfway out of his mind, begging him not to stop. Jensen nearly sobs when Jared adds a finger to his ministrations, and Jensen is fucking back into it, rocking his hips and moaning with each thrust. Fucking in and out, Jared’s tongue and finger have Jensen alarmingly close to coming, and then Jared adds a second finger, scissoring it, stretching Jensen to the brink.

“Fuck man, just, _please_ ,” Jensen is begging, and pushing back, and Jared adds a third finger, but stands. He’s still fucking his fingers in and out of Jensen, working his hole open and getting him ready.

Jensen can feel Jared’s body heat when the taller man gets close to him, and then finally, Jared is breaching Jensen, slowly entering him, setting his nerves on fire, and Jensen’s fucked out cry echoes off the buildings that form the alley. When Jared bottoms out, he strikes perfectly at that sacred bundle of nerves inside Jensen. The dancer begins doing what he does best: thrusting and rolling his hips, setting up a rhythm. Jensen matches him in kind, fucking himself back on Jared’s cock, pushing, needy. Jared wraps one massive hand around the curve of Jensen’s hipbone, taking control, and he leans over and nips at the flesh of Jensen’s neck, marking him.

“Opened up so good for me,” Jared murmurs in Jensen’s ear, his lips brushing over his earlobe. He thrusts harder, forcing the shorter man’s cheek hard into the concrete of the club wall, mercilessly slamming into Jensen’s ass. The hard flat slap of their fucking is magnified a hundred fold by the fact that absolutely anyone could walk down the alley or come out the strip club door and see what they are doing. Jared is grunting with each thrust, working at finding that most sensitive spot in Jensen each time his hips meet the flesh of Jensen’s ass. Jared snakes a hand around Jensen and finds Jensen’s leaking cock and begins stroking with each thrust and running his thumb over the sensitive head, eliciting absolutely desperate fucked out sounds from Jensen. The move has Jensen pushing back on Jared’s dick harder, taking as much as his body will allow. Jensen arches his back, forcing the angle to change so that each and every one of Jared’s thrusts is singing up his spine.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—“ and Jensen is coming hot in Jared’s hand and Jared thrusts once, twice, a third time, when his orgasm hits him like a punch. Jared bites down on Jensen’s shoulder when he comes, hard and unforgiving. They stay still a moment, breathing hard, inhaling each other.

Jared pushes himself away from the wall, and begins getting dressed. He’s dressed before Jensen can make sense of it, and Jared says, “You know, we ought to do this again sometime.” Jared’s hand is on the door to go back into the club. Jensen nods, still fuzzy. As he’s pulling up his slacks, he goes to fix the pockets, and comes up with a business card in his hand. In a slim black copperplate, it says _Jared Padalecki_ with a phone number that has a 210 area code. He meets Jared’s eyes. 

“Don’t lose it,” Jared says, and with a wink, he’s back inside the club.

Jensen decides rather quickly to put in for a branch transfer.


End file.
